


Still Running

by Lesetoilesfous



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Child Abuse, Dissociation, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 13:09:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4565796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesetoilesfous/pseuds/Lesetoilesfous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Killua ran from home more times than he could count, until one day he was sent away. In the year he's given, he meets a boy called Gon. </p><p>---</p><p>The boy flinches a little at the sudden proximity, and Killua pauses, meeting his eyes with all due solemnity. "I will not hurt you."</p><p>This close, his eyes are still as gold and brown and green and bewildering as they were before. The skin on his nose is peeling from sunburn, and blood is crusted at the base of his hairline. Gon offers him a crooked smile, and he doesn't run. He says, "I know." And, "I won't hurt you, either." Killua doesn't believe him. But he offers his little curve of smile instead. Gon beams. </p><p>---</p><p>My take on a prequel-esque shebang to MetaVirus and my collaboration, Duty. AU set in late medieval Japan. Mention of abuse, torture and violence, please be aware.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Running

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MetaVirus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MetaVirus/gifts).



The first time that Killua ran, it was just for fear. Later there would be complications. There would be questions, and doubts, and plans, and guilt. But the first time? That was simple. He was just scared. He was three years old and everything he'd ever known and everyone he'd ever loved without knowing how to question it or measure it was wearing blank stares and masks for faces and they were hurting him and he was scared. And so, bleeding and burned, he turned and he ran, and he ran as fast as he could and got as far as the castle walls before he was caught, trembling and crying, and taken back. And he was scared.

 

The second time was pain. The second time, fear had boiled down to a constant simmer that bubbled, numb, beneath his skin, he'd forgotten what it felt like not to be frightened, he just thought that was how people lived. He was five, and fear was life, and it wasn't something that he could escape. But fire burned and so did poison and he was falling apart at the edges, he could almost find the lines where he was joined together because they were tearing and he wasn't going to survive this and something base and animal and deeper and more essential than fear had him running, again, because there was no possible way that he could live, otherwise. He could not bear this his bones were breaking under it and he couldn't bear it and he didn't know why he had to.

 

This time, he only made it to the front door, and when they caught him and brought him back down he was sick, again, and again until there was nothing left in his stomach and he was trapped, again, and there was pain, again.

 

The third time it was ghosts. His body was not something important, any more. It had been broken apart and put back together more times than he could count and now it was just a glove, just something to wear, and it would be torn and burned and it would hurt and he could cry and scream and beg and it would do nothing so it didn't matter. Fear and pain. That was living. That was the world. That was him. There was no point in resisting. Things were getting dark and blurred around the edges. Sometimes, he didn't think he lived in his body at all. Not when they went downstairs. Not when he was training. It just moved, and he was elsewhere, and it frightened him a little but not as much as being inside it did.

 

And then there was fire, not the kind that hurt but the kind that was bright and vibrant. The kind that danced away the shadows in a quiet room and it licked him back to life, just for a day, in the shape of someone like him who hadn't resigned themselves to the truths of fear and pain. Who was trapped, like him, but who smiled, at him. Who spoke to him. Who was hurt but who didn't run. And he was so delighted. And then.

 

Killua learned his third truth. Life was fear, and life was pain, and life was death. It was his job to deal it, and in exchange to bear the weight of those from whom he'd stolen this colourful mess of suffering they called existence. Their blood was bright, bright, bright on his hands and he sat in the room that they'd been in when they smiled at him and he listened to their ghosts, crying. And when he couldn't stand the grief and he couldn't escape his body again he tried to leave, again, and he got outside and he thought perhaps just for one bright dizzying overwhelming moment that there was more to existence than walls and chains and fear and pain.

 

And then he was brought back.

 

Killua kept running. Sometimes it was just when the floodgates broke. When the gentle detachment that let him float apart from his body, being broken, failed him and he found himself bloody and afraid and he just couldn't process it and he needed to escape and then he couldn't, anyway. Sometimes it was fury. What world was this? Why should he bear it? He'd never known anything else and yet how could this be correct? How could blood and burning and darkness and dirt and chain be true, or right? And he'd run with venom on his lips spat at those who kept him, and he'd been brought back and made to atone for it tenfold. Sometimes it was grief. Sometimes it was a simple refrain that shuddered from his heart to his red, dripping fingers. Why why why why why. And he ran because it was easier than suffocating under that. Sometimes it was planned. Sometimes it was days or weeks of the same that he knew would kill him, eventually, and so he planned and he timed and he listened, and he ran when he thought he could and he always, always failed, until he began to wonder whether this was the nature of existence, this endless desire to escape and endless inability to do so.

 

And then he was sent away.

 

"You have one year." This was Silva. Tall and broad and resplendent and Killua was on his knees before him. This was his father but to him that meant praise when he succeeded and punishment when he didn't. It meant the man that ran every game and every torture, that was both ordainer an judge. And he'd never hurt him directly but that made him the most frightening of them all because of course he would, and anything saved for so many years would be devastating in its execution. Of course. Killua was 14 years old and his body was more scar than skin and he knelt perfectly and he wondered what these words were supposed to mean.

 

"You will survive for one year. You will receive nothing from us. We will chase you. If we catch you, you will die."

 

He stands and Killua is perfectly still because flinching is not permitted.

 

"Do you understand?"

 

He wants to say I think so. But that would not be good enough. Instead he says, "yes, father," and wonders at a reality that exists beyond these people and this place.

 

"You have one day before we follow. You may take nothing with you." A hand bigger than his shoulder rests there and Killua still doesn't flinch, does not even look up until a calloused finger tilts his chin. He stares into catlike, translucent blue eyes and has no idea what he sees there. The smooth planes of his father's face crease into a smile and he wonders at the expression that he has seen less often than he can count on one hand in all the time that he can remember. Despite himself, and the quiet fear and the quiet pain, Killua allows the faintest curve of something mimicking the expression. It feels strange. Unfamiliar. Good. The hand squeezes his shoulder and it's not painful.

 

"Good luck."

 

* * *

 

 The world outside is cold. That's the first thing that he learns. He leaves when sun sets with nothing but the clothes on his back and finds himself in a forest that he saw, once, when he ran, and again in dreams. It's dark and cold and damp. That's alright. He knows these things. He flickers from trunk to trunk and it's not so very different at all from the grounds in which he was raised. He does not believe there is anything more frightening ahead than that which he's left behind him.

 

It takes him hours, not long enough for the sky to lighten, to reach the forest edge, and dizziness thumps into him like a sledgehammer because this is new. This is a dusty, rocky track, like those that lead to the house, except that it disappears into the distance and he doesn't know where it goes. Killua stands in the shadows and his palms are cold and clammy and he waits for long strong arms and silky black hair to catch him the way it always has because he's never been this far before. He waits and waits and his throat hurts from catching and nothing happens and he steps forward and the world shifts. This is a new reality. The little curve he'd worn before curls his mouth again and it still feels strange and it still feels good and with nothing in his way he runs and runs and runs.

 

By sunrise, he can see walls, and they're not castle walls. Behind them he can see buildings, more than he's ever seen before, and they're short and tall and squat and narrow. They're red and brown and sandy and blue. They're bright and they're different and they have windows and some are falling apart at the edges and some are rich and gilt. The sun pours like honeyed gold over their haphazard roofs and Killua stares and has never seen anything more beautiful and thinks perhaps that this is magic. And then he gets closer, and he hears the sounds. There are carts and there are animals, huffing and braying and snorting and neighing. There are smells, of spice and sweat and waste and rot and sweet somethings and meat and blood and smoke. There are voices. There are voices that he's never heard, high and low and loud and soft, nasal and braying and worn around the edges by accented curls he doesn't know. He flickers through the gates and nearly slows to stare at the strange men wearing armour and blades that he's seen over silk clothes he never has. He melts into the streets and they're cobbled and uneven and his mouth is open and he spits bugs and doesn't care. Because there's fresh bread on wooden trolleys and rotting cabbages on threadbare rugs and pimpled faces and sweating mothers, and its kaleidoscopic and cacophonous and it's not long before he needs to fall into the dark cold shadow of an alley because it's almost too much. And the curve from before is pushing his cheeks hard enough to hurt and he doesn't care because this is brilliant. It could be frightening but Killua's known fear and he's learnt to measure his enemies and none of these could hurt him. And they're so vibrant and they're so alive and he doesn't need to break a single one because that's not what he was told to do. So he stops and stares and beams and breathes in the smell and soaks up the noise and it's everything. It's a new world, and he thinks perhaps he died in the night and he doesn't care because if this is what comes after then everything's ok. All can be forgiven.

 

He can't stay long because he knows that there are devils on his heels and they're more frightening than the snarling dragons that writhe down the richer columns of the town's taller buildings and all the same he circles it three times, staring and learning and not knowing how to take all of it in before he slips into a cart, partly because of some vague notion of hiding his tracks and mostly because there are people and they're talking and their voices are unrestrained and they smell like sweat and perfume and animals but not blood or dust or metal and that's more than he's known.

 

It is not a remotely perfect world. It isn't long before Killua finds blood and death again, before he begins to learn that this version of existence is cracking at the edges and it's just above the one from which he came and it's falling. He sees people starving and cities razed and diseases on children. (He's not a child anymore.) Sometimes he can't eat for days because nobody can in the place in which he finds himself, and sometimes some of them can but there isn't much and for all the throats he's slit he can't bring himself to make them die slowly and he hasn't been told to so he won't because he knows how to bear the pain of hunger.

 

So it is, skin stretched taut over his bones, a little worn, filthy, and exhausted by now from running longer than he is able and not quite sleeping in the night for fear of shadows on his heels, that he finds his way into Mikari Province. He’s near the coast, and the taste of salt is taunting the thirst blistering his throat. The ground is dusty and his shoes are nearly worn through. The air is humid, and sweat clings like film to his skin. He’s leaping from branch to branch because he’s learnt that the canopy is safer and faster than the earth, and most in this haphazard world can’t seem to follow him there. (None, yet.)

 

He very nearly misses the knot of strangers below him. Very nearly disappears onwards without a second glance or a second thought because he thinks he saw long dark hair that he recognised in the last town and he doesn't dare to stop.

 

But there’s a thump and the tree that he’s in shudders from the base and he pauses, arm outstretched, to glance down at the man crumpled against the trunk below him. He was thrown so hard the bark splintered and Killua’s hackles rise as he assesses the rest for the culprit. It’s not hard. There are 6 of them altogether. Five men, fairly young, younger than Illumi.

 

And one boy, his age perhaps. His dark skin is covered by thick freckles over his cheeks and nose and shoulders. His clothes are ragged and torn and filthy, and his hair is dark and thick and wiry, arrayed in a wild nest around his head. His eyes are brown or gold or green, Killua assumes it’s the light tricking him, and he’s bloody and red and he’ll be bruising, soon. And he’s cornered. Killua’s eyes narrow.

 

He doesn't like bullies. This is not his world. This is light and tender, impossible touches from mothers to children, between lovers and brothers and friends and he is enchanted and apart from it but it is precious to him nonetheless. He won't let this world fall down into his. He won't let it break. And he can’t rebuild the cities or cure the diseases but he can do something, sometimes. Sometimes it feels like enough.

 

The boy, maybe his age (he tries not to be intrigued), spits blood and glares at the five now surrounding him. "Piss off."

 

Killua blinks. These are words he hadn't heard before he left, but he’s heard them since in the mouths of scarred drunken men and harried fishwives and scolded children. His mouth curls. He loves this world.

 

The men growl. "Who do you think you are, brat? Think you can talk down to us? Think you can look down on us?"

 

The ones that aren’t shouting look scared, Killua notes, clinically. They’re glancing at their fallen companion and measuring the weight of their pride against that of their fear.

 

Killua watches, and waits.

 

The leader, red and loud and strong but slow, moves to strike. The boy evades him with ease, but. Killua leans forward, just a little, and the branches quiver. The boy glances up, at him, at the same time that the leader swings again and this time his dodge is slow and clumsy, he’s avoiding resting on his left leg and he trips. The rest, catching it, press forward with new confidence and the third time the leader swings, his fist connects with the boy’s jaw. He’s forced to the side with the impact but he doesn't fall and he doesn't defend, either. He just spits more blood and glares as if he isn't barely standing on one good leg and bloody.

 

Killua wonders how long they’ve been chasing him.

 

One of them draws a knife, and that prompts another two, looking uneasy and grinning all the same and Killua hates those smiles because they’re a twisted parody of the real ones and they’ve got no place here.

 

Two press forward, and the boy nearly dodges both but then a knife swings through the air and he moves into it and it bites deeply into his upper arm. Blood dribbles thickly down his dark tan skin and he makes a sound somewhere between a huff and a whimper and Killua hates it, and then the rest are pressing around him in a knot too tight for Killua to see through but he recognises the movements of kicks and punches and he’s following the knives, especially.

 

He slips down the tree trunk.

 

There’s a thump, six cracks and a quick, efficient, slice. All five men drop to the ground like puppets with their strings cut. A little off centre, standing poised and composed amidst their crumpled bodies, Killua glances at the boy. He’s more wounded than before, breathing unsteadily around three broken ribs. His eye and lips are swollen, and another knife caught his thigh. His ankle is fat and red and purple.

 

He probably won't survive alone.

 

Killua needs to leave.

 

"Aw come on. I could’ve taken them."

 

He sounds petulant. Frozen amidst the bodies, Killua stares. The boy cracks a bloody grin, and Killua registers that his teeth are still in tact, at least. "Thanks, though."

 

Killua doesn't move. This isn't the first time he’s done this. He doesn't like bullies. But the victims are usually afraid. They rarely speak at all and if they do it is to tell him to leave and he doesn't blame them because he would, too, if he were so defenceless in such a world. The smell of salt and vegetation is thick in his throat and he calls that the reason for the tightness in his chest. When he speaks, his voice is rough and soft and dusty with misuse. It barely carries above the birds and creatures that have begun, cautiously, to call again in the aftermath of the confrontation. "Aren't you afraid?"

 

The boy snorts, then winces as blood dribbles, bubbling, from his nose. "Do I look scared?"

 

Killua knows fear. He knows it intimately. It’s sweat and eyes wide enough to hurt and sometimes tears, it's a dry mouth and a stopped throat and goose pimples and hairs prickling on your skin. It’s dizziness and nausea and finding it hard to breathe. It’s cold. He shakes his head. "No."

 

The boy keeps smiling and folds, with a thump, onto the grass and dirt beneath him, careful not to jostle his injured ankle. Killua stands and stares. "I am impressed though." He beams, at Killua, and Killua doesn't know what to do with it so he keeps staring and he stays still. He speaks almost without the permission of his mind.

 

"This is nothing."

 

The boy laughs a little. "Really? Seems like something to me."

 

Killua flushes and, confused, tries to filter what he wants to say next. He shifts from one foot to another. "They were not trained."

 

The boy’s smile flickers and Killua nearly flinches but doesn't because he’s not allowed to flinch. "And you were?" Killua frowns, the boy elaborates. "You were trained?"

 

Killua pauses. He thinks he should leave now. He nods, instead. The birds sing softly over the roar of the distant sea.

 

The boy leans back on his arms as if one of them isn't bleeding and both aren't bruised, and he looks lazily over his unconscious opponents. "Must be some pretty interesting training." Killua says nothing. The boy sits up a little and grins again and Killua wonders why because it has to hurt. "Maybe you could teach me a thing or two?"

 

"No!" Killua didn't mean to raise his voice. The birds, startled, leap from the canopy. He clenches his fists and relaxes them again. Cold sweat prickles down his spine. He should leave. The boy is looking at him and he can’t read his expression. It could be amused, or interested, or thoughtful, or none of these.

 

"Ok." He says it softly, as if he’s talking to some flighty, frightened thing. Killua takes three long deep breaths. And then the boy sticks out a bloody knuckled hand. "I’m Gon, by the way." Killua looks from his outstretched hand to his bruised, bleeding face. He’s still smiling. The sun is hot and the air is thick and damp. He doesn't take his hand. He doesn’t reply at all. Gon tilts his head to the side. "You don't talk much, do you?" Killua says nothing. There’s nothing to say. He’s not sure why he hasn't left yet, but his feet seem to have sunk roots into the thick undergrowth and trapped him there. He realises, distantly, that he doesn't want to leave. "Do you want to see where I live? It isn't far." Killua wants to say that he shouldn't be so trusting, and that he himself would not fall for so apparent a trap. His gaze falls to Gon’s ankle, and Gon follows it before laughing, softly. "Ah. Yeah, I fell."

 

Killua frowns a little. "You should dress your wounds."

 

Gon blinks and stares at him and Killua doesn't know why. "I guess so?" He smiles again, rubbing the back of his neck as a rich cherry blush rises beneath his freckles, flooding his dark cheeks. "I don't really know how."

 

"How have you survived?"

 

Gon stares, a little startled, and then laughs. "Just lucky, I guess." Killua doesn't understand. He stays rooted for a moment longer, and leans toward the comfort of the shadows and the canopy. Again, without any real conscious thought, his body moves against him, and he finds himself at the boy’s side. The boy flinches a little at the sudden proximity, and Killua pauses, meeting his eyes with all due solemnity.

 

"I will not hurt you."

 

This close, his eyes are still as gold and brown and green and bewildering as they were before. The skin on his nose is peeling from sunburn, and blood is crusted at the base of his hairline. Gon offers him a crooked smile, and he doesn't run. He says, "I know." And, "I won't hurt you, either." Killua doesn't believe him. But he offers his little curve of smile instead. Gon beams.

 

* * *

 

Killua cleans and binds the cuts easily before moving on to bandage and splint Gon’s ankle as best he can. Gon is quiet while he does so, watching him, and Killua is a little glad. He’s confused enough already. It's past midday by the time he’s satisfied with his work, including time taken to the nearest, cleanest stream to fetch water to rinse the wounds. Gon looks at his bandaged arm and thigh with something like wonder. "I look like a soldier!"

 

Killua raises an eyebrow without really meaning to. "How?" He has no weapons, or armour, and little muscle to speak of beyond the wiry stuff born of necessity.  Gon grins at him. He smiles a lot. It's strange.

 

"You know! When they come back from a fight or something."

 

"You were in a fight." Killua points out, still mildly confused.

 

Gon huffs. "Yeah, but not like, a proper battle, with swords and horses and samurai, you know?"

 

Killua watches him as he speaks. When he finishes, he cocks his head to the side. "You want to go to war?"

 

Gon pauses, thinking about it. The men around them are still unconscious and accruing flies, now. Killua doesn't care. "Well, no. Not really. But I think I probably will, one day. If I live that long!" He laughs and Killua doesn't think it's all that funny so he doesn't.

 

Instead he says. "Where do you live?"

 

Gon blinks and stares. "Oh, right! This way." He tries to stand, awkwardly. Killua frowns as he fails at his second attempt and, after a moment, he scoops him into his arms. Gon's hot and soft and a little damp and he weighs almost nothing.

 

He jumps, and winces when it jostles his injuries. "Hey! What are you doing?"

 

Killua frowns and pretends he isn't flushing because he’s not entirely sure. Instead he shifts from one foot to another. "There is no point bearing unnecessary pain. You will only make your injuries worse."

 

"What about my self respect?" Gon splutters, red.

 

"Your pride is less important than your ability to walk." He replies, calmly, and tries very hard not to think about how it feels to hold someone.

 

Gon huffs, still red, chewing his lip before folding his arms. "Fine." Killua smiles again, very little, very softly. "Geez, you’re pretty." He stops, pauses, blushes to the roots of his hair and clears his throat, wriggling. "You're pretty strong, aren't you?"

 

He shifts. Killua doesn't move. He doesn't weigh much. He says, "yes," and Gon laughs.

 

"You're pretty weird, too."

 

Killua frowns. "That's bad."

 

He looks down at the boy in his arms, who's watching him with a lopsided grin. "Nah. It's kind of cute."

 

Killua’s frown deepens. "Children are cute. I am not a child. I am deadly." These are facts. Gon laughs again. Killua blushes. He’s so confused.  And then an arm is looping around his neck and Killua is very stiff and very still and every hair stands on end until he realises with something between shock and awe that Gon is not trying to kill him. This is an embrace. Cautiously, tenderly, he holds him a little closer.

 

"Ok Mr Not Cute but Deadly. We need to go that way." Gon points. Killua nods, and starts to run.

 

It takes three weeks for Gon’s ankle to heal. Killua tells himself he’ll only stay till then. In that time they stay in the cave that Gon calls his home with the creatures that live in it with him. Gon gets bored quickly and as the days fade into nights and back again, they begin to talk. Killua learns that Gon is not an orphan, that he ran from his adopted mother to find his father who’d gone to war. That he hasn’t found him yet, and that he’s lived here in the jungle for a few months, though he’s not sure exactly how long. That he’s good at fishing and better at getting into trouble.

 

Killua is reluctant to offer much in return, has been taught too many times the danger of revealing anything at all to anyone. But he can feel himself softening: unwinding, just a little. He begins to be a little less restrained. The first time he laughs, he stops almost immediately from the shock, and Gon stares for a little too long before laughing a little too hard and then dedicating every day thereafter to making it happen again. And it does. Killua starts to laugh. His smiles grow a little wider. He lets loose the stiff, detached modes of speech he’s been taught, resting firmly within his limits. He starts cautiously to joke. To swear. To make criticisms and suggestions. It feels like finding a voice again and he can’t quite believe there was one left to find.

 

When he gets back, hands full of dead rabbits, to see Gon, standing at the cave and waving, his heart is torn between a leap and sinking to his toes. He should leave now. It's been too long already. He’s not needed, any more.

 

Gon’s made the fire, and he strips and skewers the rabbits easily. He’s filled one of his three crudely carved wooden bowls with berries, and he shares them out whilst the meat is cooking. "I was thinking." His voice is soft, it barely carries over the snap and crackle of the kindling. "We should stay together."

 

Killua stares at him, pausing in his movements. "What?"

 

Gon looks across the fire to meet his eyes. His face is healed now, and it's handsome. The fire licks copper over the bronze of his skin and Killua can never quite help staring on nights like this, no matter how much he wishes that he would.  "You and me. We should stay together."

 

The smell of the meat, cooking, fills his mouth and he carefully avoids Gon’s eyes. "Who said that we wouldn't?"

 

"You." Killua opens his mouth to say that he didn't but Gon speaks at around the same time his calloused palm lands gently on his shoulder and it's sort of like his father’s and at the same time very much not and it’s just so gentle and Killua can’t move. "You were planning to leave when I’d healed, right?"

 

Killua says nothing. Gon squeezes his shoulder, very gently and he sighs and stares at the dusty rock beneath his feet. "It's not because of you."

 

"I know."  Killua looks up, vaguely annoyed, but Gon's smiling again and he melts and this is weakness and he knows it and he doesn't care. Gon’s hand moves from his shoulder to his cheek and Killua doesn't move, he’s just caught, like a startled animal, staring and still and a little wild. Gon’s thumb rubs over his cheek bone. "I don't know why you think you have to leave. But I know that you don't want to."

 

It's too much and Killua pulls away and turns back to the rabbits, which are browning nicely, and glances outside, down the slope at the thick dark trees and the creatures creeping through their canopy. Beyond them lies the thin dark line of the not so distant sea. "It's dangerous for you." He’s not sure why he’s taking the bait. He doesn't know much of Gon yet but what he does know is that if he gives him an inch he’ll take a mile and then run a little further just to satisfy his curiosity.

 

"We could protect each other."

 

Killua shakes his head and closes his eyes because he doesn't want to see the things that brings into his mind. "Not from this."

 

"Why?" Gon frowns, leaning forward, and Killua thinks he might touch him again and moves away because his kindness is addictive but there’s only so much he can take at once without falling apart. "Who’s chasing you?"

 

Killua’s mouth curls a little. He glances up, quick and furtive across the fire. "You."

 

Gon smiles back, but it’s twinged with irritation and it doesn't frighten him any more and Killua’s smile grows a little wider. "You know what I mean."

 

Killua lifts a shoulder and lets it drop. "People."

 

"The people that trained you?" Gon’s voice curls around the words like they’re bitter in his mouth. Killua doesn't look up, but he nods. "And what will they do if they find you?"

 

Killua chews his cheek. "I have a year." He glances down at his hands, and beyond them at the wood, burning slowly. "If they catch me before it’s out, then I die."

 

"And after?"

 

Killua shrugs again. "Live, probably. But they’ll want me back." His voice cracks. He doesn't want to go back. He thinks that perhaps this has been the cruellest torture yet. To taste a world beyond the shadows, and then to have to give it up. He glances at Gon, who’s staring at him, and bites his lip when he looks away because he won't cry. Because he learnt how not to years ago but suddenly he’s open again and he doesn't know how to lock away the bad things without losing the good, too.

 

"I won't let them take you."

 

Killua scowls, poking the rabbit. "You couldn't stop them." Hadn't he been listening?

 

"I don't care. I won’t." Gon’s voice is firm and sure and all Killua can see in his mind’s eye are broken bodies and his anger rises, hot and vicious and too quick for him to stop.

 

"It doesn't matter if you care!" He’s on his feet and he’s not quite sure when and Gon is too and he looks angry but not with Killua and Killua hates it because he doesn't deserve any of this and he’s too selfish to give it up. "It doesn't matter if I care! They will find me and they will take me and you. Can’t. Stop them." Killua learned this lesson years ago, he’s learned it backwards and inside out and he’s wished it broken a million times and he knows it never will be.

 

Gon shouts right back. "How do you know? How do you know I couldn't? We haven't even tried!"

 

With a growl Killua twists into motion. He knocks Gon’s feet from under him in seconds, careful to avoid his newly healed ankle, and pins him to the ground. Gon struggles, but he can’t move him. Killua leans in close and snarls. "Don't you think I've tried? If I couldn't you can't and I won't let you die for me."

 

Gon doesn't back down. He’s on his back and he’s technically helpless and he sticks out his chin and glares. "That's not your decision to make."

 

Killua growls again, hands squeezing Gon’s wrists and he looks up at the cave wall dancing in the firelight and then back down at Gon, whose features are dark and soft in the shadows. "Why can’t you understand? I don't want this."

 

"Then don't do it."

 

Killua huffs and to his horror the sound is damp with a sob that breaks from his mouth before he can stop it. "I don't want to lose you. You're the first. The first. I don’t." He can't make sense, any more. Sadness and fear and pain are twisting his chest into shuddering knots and his vision is blurring with the first tears he's wept in years. Slowly, Gon pulls at his wrist, and Killua lets it go. Warm, strong arms wrap around him and it's more contact than they've shared before despite Gon’s lavishing of gentle touches and Killua shakes in his arms and doesn't try to process it because he doesn't have the space in his mind to do so.

 

 Gon holds him tightly, and Killua cries, and after a moment he notices tears falling onto his head and he pulls back to stare at Gon, crying too, and shakes his head and goes to speak but Gon stops him.  "No, it’s ok. It’s not you. I just. It isn't fair." Killua sort of laughs and mostly sobs and Gon’s brow twists with concern. His hold tightens again and he buries his head into Killua’s shoulder. "I won't let them take you away."

 

"You can’t," Killua tries again, but Gon stops him.

 

"I know. I know and I believe you but I’m sorry. I have to try."

 

And Killua doesn't want to argue any more so he says, instead. "You could be killed."

 

Gon shrugs. "I could be killed anyway." Killua frowns. He doesn't think that’s reassuring. He knows that it’s true. Very, very cautiously, he moves to wrap his arms around Gon. Gon sighs, and presses a little closer. For a moment they lie there.

 

"Are we friends?" Killua’s voice is small and soft and he sort of hopes that Gon doesn't hear it.

 

Gon hums. "Well, that depends." Killua stiffens, and Gon giggles, letting him go so that both of them can sit up. The rabbits, neglected, begin to burn. "We could be friends. I think we already are." Gon beams, and Killua tries not to let his heart leap from his chest because it’d probably be dangerous and he’s supposed to not be trusting anyone and he’s not sure when that stopped being important. "But," Killua catches his breath, waiting, but Gon is rubbing the back of his neck and flushing to the roots of his dirty hair. He glances out of the cave, where the sky is streaked pink and lilac by the last flames of sunset. "Well. I. I. I, uh. Um. Wow. This is hard." He giggles and Killua frowns a little, smiling despite himself because he hasn't seen Gon stammer yet and it’s sort of adorable, actually.  Gon takes a deep breath, and meets his gaze. "Well, you’re really pretty. And I like touching you. And I’d kind of like to touch you more? In different ways. And ah," He keeps looking around the cave. Anywhere but him, Killua realises, with something between surprise and amusement. "Say nice things? And kind of keep you to myself, actually. And I'm not sure if you’ve come across this before but."

 

"You want to be lovers?" Killua asks, frowning, because he grew up trapped but that doesn't mean he’s naive and he’d spent months walking this world watching people before he found Gon.

 

Gon jumps and flushes brighter, and Killua’s grin widens. "Well no! We could maybe work our way up to, uh, that. But. Well. We could possibly... Kiss?" His voice breaks on the word and he flushes deeper and he looks away and then back up to Killua, shyly. His long thick eyelashes cast shadows down the freckled planes of his cheeks in the firelight and Killua wonders how anyone so beautiful could ever be so unaware of the fact.

 

He’s not exactly sure how they got from his horrifying past to romance, but he doesn't really mind, either. "Kiss." He repeats, testing the word’s weight in his mouth. Gon looks anywhere but at him and in the process notices the rabbits burning, jerking them off the fire with a curse. Killua watches, and looks past him at the sunset, and thinks about it whilst Gon fusses over the meat. "Ok." Gon drops the rabbits. Killua’s already given up on the meal, anyway, and he watches with a small smile as Gon turns to look at him, red as before. He likes it when Gon blushes.

 

"Ok?" Gon’s voice breaks again over the word and Killua thinks he’s cute, again, and nearly stops himself and then decides he won't.

 

"We can kiss." He moves forward, and it’s Gon’s turn to be frozen and Killua’s more than a little vindicated by it. He gets close enough that his breath ghosts across Gon’s lips and pauses there. Gon stares, first at his eyes, startled but a little lost in a way Killua recognises, and he’s sort of in awe at the idea that Gon finds him beautiful, too. He catches the way Gon glances, quickly, down to his lips. He doesn't stop blushing.

 

And then he puts down the remaining rabbit and wipes his greasy fingers on his clothes and looks back up and stares into Killua’s eyes again and he doesn't try to look away. A calloused palm rests on his cheek and Gon says, softly, "are you sure?"

 

Killua shrugs. "We can try."

 

Gon smiles, and something ignites in his eyes. His hand moves to wind tenderly through Killua’s hair, clapsing the back of his head, and it's the first time in his life that such a movement hasn't frightened him. Gon leans forward and their noses knock together and both of them laugh, softly, a little breathless, but Gon pulls back for only a moment and not far before tilting his head and pressing in again. His lips touch Killua’s, and they’re warm and chapped and soft and it sends a spark of something impossibly light and bright and gold like lightning through his chest and lungs and Gon pulls back but his eyes are shining and he’s beaming and pink and Killua grins right back and says, "do it again." And he does.

 

* * *

 

So they fell in love, in the way that children do. They held hands and raced and joked and wrestled and they kissed. They slept snug in one another’s arms and found every excuse to touch and pull and play and discover each other, gently. Killua learned what happiness felt like, unfettered, and knew that Gon had never been happier, either.

 

For six months they travelled together. They saw war and they saw famine and they saw plague, and sometimes Gon would cry into Killua’s shoulder and sometimes Killua would let go of his body, just a little, until Gon’s hand in his pulled him back. But they were surviving. They were living. They stole food and they played and Killua refused to train Gon, exactly, but he taught him nonetheless because he couldn't stand the idea of this person who was his world walking away from him defenceless. So Killua taught Gon to protect himself, took lessons that he’d learnt between the pain and fear and cut those parts out and focused on how to handle a sword or disarm an opponent using branches for their weapons and dust for their arena. It was easy. Gon was already strong, fast and agile. The first time he leapt into the canopy both were as excited as the other to discover another that could keep up, and from then it was always a contest that Killua could push with skill but Gon often won on raw ability.

 

In return, Gon talked. Gon gave him the names of foods and people and places, showed him plants and creatures he’d never seen, taught him games and gambles and the way that this world worked, the way it breathed. Slowly, he drew Killua from the shadows, and for the first time he felt not like a distant visitor to this new and wondrous existence so far from the pain that he had known, but a welcome guest. They began to talk to people other than each other. They trusted few but there were some: a small woman with grey hair and a flute, a bald young man whose reflexes were sharpened almost as well as Killua’s. A solemn boy and an absent minded master. Others that he lost track of, they left all of them quickly, Killua conscious of the shadows at his back and Gon of the father he dreamt just beyond the horizon.

 

It was friendship and love and allegiance of a kind Killua had never known. He began to play, and joke, and sink back into the childhood he’d thought he’d shucked. He stuck his tongue out and winked and threw food. He didn't flinch because he didn't want to, not because he wasn't supposed to.

 

Gon changed, too. Killua watched it in startled wonder. He hadn't quite realised, at first, how sad the other boy had been. He’d been so busy being overwhelmed by any smiles at all that he hadn't yet registered some came with sadness. He didn't quite process that Gon had been alone for as long as he had, or what kind of effect it would have on a child like him. But the difference between Gon when they’d met and after the six months they spent together was like that between a starless night and a meteor shower. He unfolded and then he bloomed. And Killua began to see the boy that wasn't angry but bold, not resentful, brave, and open and honest and loving and kind. The boy that insisted he be taught to bandage a puppy’s leg. The one that leapt across canyons without hesitation and who laughed, delightedly, as their makeshift swords met with a crack, hard enough to splinter.

 

Killua began to realise how much Gon kept to himself, especially his sadness, and how very tender he was at heart. He learnt how much Gon missed his mother, Mito. How much he worried for her. He learnt Gon’s remarkable intelligence, and his pride and his anger and his kindness. He learned the way Gon knew the story of every hero in their era, the way he admired the samurai, the way he chased their tales. He learned how Gon hated his own weakness, how he aspired one day to be able to protect anyone that needed him. He learned how he loved the stars. Killua taught Gon to read, and Gon taught him the constellations. Killua taught Gon the little he knew of sword craft, and Gon taught him to hunt and track in the way that only one who’d grown in the wild knew how. Gon taught him to be kind, in his words and his actions, in a way that others could understand. Killua taught him to read and tread the world’s sharper edges.

 

When Illumi finds him, Killua’s heart breaks.

 

* * *

 

He’d been walking down the street, searching for apples. Gon had wanted some and he’d volunteered. He’d been practicing being alone. Not like he had before. He was learning how to talk to people, strangers, and do so gently. He was learning to smile at people other than Gon, and to find the things not to fear but love in them. Gon’s half reluctant to let him go, sheepishly confessing to wanting him for himself. But he’s delighted, too, and Killua can see the pride and joy in his face when he returns, flushed and excited with stories of children and mothers, brothers and lovers and friends.  So he’s in the market, looking for apples and people and their stories to bring back with him. And when he sees long dark hair, he’s learnt enough faith in happiness not to be afraid. And that’s his mistake.

 

A cold hand lands on his shoulder, and Killua turns, and halfway through the movement he registers the danger and ducks to escape and then there are long pale arms around his chest and black silky hair down his back and he’s done this before, he’s done it too many times and everything in him is at once lost to utter panic and frozen by fear. He wants to be sick but he’s too busy struggling, desperately, because he won’t give up, not this time, he has something to run to.

 

He kicks and twists, viciously, and eventually settles on biting his brother’s arm, hard. He thinks with wonder that nine months ago he’d never have dared. Illumi jerks in surprise and his grip slackens enough to let Killua break it and he sucks in a breath and bellows. "Gon!" He only manages to do so once, because then Illumi’s foot is connecting neatly with his gut and all the air in his body is forced out in a huff. Killua tumbles down the street onto the cobbles. The morning is quiet but for the pair of them and Killua finds himself hoping, suddenly, that Illumi did nothing to make it so.

 

He rolls with difficulty to his feet and Illumi is approaching him with measured, unhurried footsteps. Killua takes in a long breath of the sweat and spice and manure that he’s come to know and love dearly on city streets and snarls. Because there’s no way he isn't going down swinging. He searches the stalls between them, closed now, and when he sees nothing exposed he makes a mental apology before reaching out and snapping a piece of wood from one of them. He brandishes it before him and thinks, wildly, of his and Gon’s sword practice, and his knuckles clench more tightly around the wood.

 

Illumi stops and looks at him. "It's ok. I'm not going to kill you. You’ve done well. But father wants you back now." Killua doesn't move. He’s trying to figure out what to do. His heart has found its way into his throat and part of his mind is trying to break away from his body and most of his world has narrowed down to the slender, dark form of his brother standing between the haphazard buildings like a jagged tear ripped through the scenery and he knows he has just moments to get away.

 

Illumi flickers into motion again and Killua tries to defend himself and can’t and his arm breaks with a snap. Killua cries out, tears springing to his eyes, and Illumi’s smooth pale brow wrinkles a little. "That didn't hurt, Killua." His hand moves, viper fast, grabbing the broken bone, squeezing hard and twisting it. It splinters further, biting into and through Killua’s skin and muscle which tear as blood bursts hotly down his arm. Killua cries out, shutting his eyes tightly as if that’ll help, and his body jerks away on pure instinct.

 

Something solid and loud and fast thumps into Illumi’s side and Killua falls and realises he hadn't noticed that his feet had left the ground through the pain but he does now just in time to cradle the mess that was his right arm, sheltering it a little from the impact. He looks up and sees Gon, fists clenched, stance wide and defiant, standing between he and Illumi. Something sort of trembles somewhere inside his chest. Killua’s never been protected before.

 

The frown puckering Illumi’s brow deepens. He doesn't look at Gon, leaning past him to stare at Killua. Despite himself and his pride, Killua can’t find it in him to meet his gaze. "Is this yours?"

 

He scowls, opening his mouth, but Gon beats him to it. "I was about to ask him the same thing. But there’s no way Killua would associate with someone like you."

 

Illumi frowns and he moves and Killua knows what’s coming next and kicks Gon’s legs out from under him. Gon tumbles with a yelp and the dagger that Illumi slices through the air where his neck had been catches a handful of wiry black hairs which are caught by the cold morning breeze before falling to the stone. Killua scrambles to his feet and he’s remembering how to fold the pain away again and he steps over Gon, standing between he and his brother.  He says nothing but he’s given away too much already. Illumi purses his lips. "But really, Killua, this is cruel." Killua tries to keep breathing. Illumi watches him carefully, pale brow smoothing once more. His arm is cold and burning and useless at his side and he doesn't care, he’s not moving. "You can't have friends."

 

"Jokes on you. He already does, fuckhead." Gon snarls, getting to his feet. He stands shoulder to shoulder with Killua and suddenly the world stops falling apart beneath him.

 

Illumi sighs. "You misunderstand. Killua is not capable of friendship. Only judging whether someone is a threat to him or not." He spares Gon a cursory glance. "Clearly you are not." Gon growls and goes to move and Killua steps in front of him because if he does then he’ll be hurt and he can't watch that. It doesn't matter how they've trained Killua couldn't hope to fight Illumi and so Gon can't, either, and he’s becoming rapidly aware that they're only delaying the inevitable.

 

He decides that he doesn't care. "Yes I am." Illumi hums and Killua swallows and tries again, louder and more clearly this time. "I am capable of friendship. I can have friends. I do know how."

 

Illumi tsks. Killua is very, very cold. "No, little brother. You are a puppet." Killua shudders. "A puppet that thinks it can love. You’re just imitating what you’ve seen. Whatever it is you think you're feeling, it isn't real." As he speaks, Illumi's fingers twist and curl, as if playing the strings of some familiar instrument. His tone is bored. He's said this before.

 

"Liar." Gon spits. Illumi’s fingers twitch, and suddenly there are needles in his hands, with inch long silver points and bulbous wooden handles. Killua’s heart stops beating. His brother isn't playing any more.

 

"Y-you’re," he takes a deep breath, Illumi watches. So does Gon. "You’re right. I am a p-p-p," he can't say the word. He has to because he has to stop this now but all he can think of are wooden dolls and his body breaking and all the years he spent half empty and going back to that, now. He shuts his eyes, tries again. "I’m a p-p-p," Gon touches his shoulder and he manages to exhale, "puppet." He feels Gon’s surprise through his fingers and thinks I’m sorry. I’ll be a coward any day if it means you live. He steps in front of Gon, and the needles slip back into the recesses of Illumi’s sleeve. He looks down, because that’s what he’s supposed to do. "I’ll go home now."

 

Illumi kicks him, again, but he’d been expecting it so he doesn't try to avoid it, and Gon’s too slow to stop him. Killua huffs as he thumps onto the ground, tensing as Illumi comes closer, ignoring Gon completely. "Why did you refuse Killua? You know that you can never beat me." Gon charges forward and Illumi blocks him without looking, following up with a swift strike towards his neck that Gon only barely avoids. Eyes wide, Killua tries to sit up. To help. And Illumi sees and he scowls. He turns so that he’s facing them both but he’s still talking to Killua. "Lying isn't nice, Kill." Killua trembles bodily at the nickname, even as he struggles to his feet. "You're not allowed to lie to me." The needles are between Illumi’s fingers again and they’re not going to win.

 

"Run." Killua turns to Gon, begging. "Please just run."

 

Gon stares at him and there’s something that looks like hurt in his eyes but is mostly concern and fury. "I won't leave you. I told you that."

 

"Killua you’re not listening." Illumi’s voice is softly displeased. It’s followed by a thumping kick to his torso, harder than the rest, and Killua feels his ribcage buckle just before he hears his bones snap. He doubles over, gritting his teeth and shutting his eyes against the tears that rise in them, and he clenches his knuckles and stands his ground.

 

"Alright. You're wrong." From the corner of his eye he sees Gon grin, triumphant, and if these are his last moments then it's enough. Illumi seems to realise that his hold is slipping because he presses forward, sweeping Killua’s feet from under him and stamping down on his ankle as he does with surgical force. Killua feels his bone fracture and tries not to make a sound.   A strangled whimper escapes between his clenched teeth, anyway. It's followed by another kick, and another, and his body skids across the pavement with the force and his ribs crunch and he’s having trouble breathing and it’s all he can think as the barrage commences and he curls into himself and just waits for it to end. As if from a distance he sees Gon running at Illumi, sees him batted away as a mere nuisance. Illumi is busy frowning down at Killua. He raises his foot to kick him again and this used to be it, these used to be the times that he gave up and did what was asked of him, even if all that was was to lie there and bear it. But Killua is not who he was. He looks at Gon.

 

Illumi catches it.

 

"Oh." He says. He turns on Gon, who is bruised and bloody by now and somehow more furious. It takes him a heartbeat to draw a dagger and hold it to his neck and Gon goes still. Killua stares, can see the blood welling up over the blade and he knows how the next part goes. He knows how it feels and how it looks and how it smells and how it tastes in his mouth and he doesn't want to. He’s begging before he knows he’s spoken.

 

"No." He spits blood and he’s struggling upwards and between his arm and his ankle and his ribs it’s so much harder than before but he manages with difficulty. "Illumi no, please, no, don’t. Don’t, please." Gon is staring at him and the anger is crumbling and Killua thinks he might cry and he wishes that he wouldn't because he’s not sure his heart can break further without stopping completely.

 

Illumi tilts his head to the side, pressing the dagger a little deeper into Gon’s skin, and Killua can see his pulse jumping there and suddenly all he can think is that he never got to kiss his neck or his shoulders or his collarbone and that he wanted to and that now he never will. "You’ll come home?"

 

Killua’s not sure when he started crying but he heaves a desperate, "yes," through a sob, choking.

 

"You won’t leave again?"

 

"I won’t. I won’t I promise, Illumi please. Please." Gon’s staring at him and crying and Killua thinks he’d be shaking his head if he could but he can't make himself care because Gon has to live. Because he can't watch him die.

 

"You’ll kill for us again?"

 

Killua stares and thinks that he hadn't told Gon that part, and he can't bear to look into his eyes, and he thinks of blood and last words and hatred and tears and ghosts. Vomit rises in his throat and he’s not sure when he started shaking, exactly, and he doesn't want to be here any more. Gon's blood spills down over his collarbone and Killua knows exactly how much force will be required to slit his throat and he can’t he can’t he can’t. "Yes." He whispers, hoarse. This is how Killua decides that he’s selfish.

 

"No." Gon murmurs, softly, and Killua’s never heard him sound so sad and he can’t bear to look at him. Illumi smiles.

 

"Well, now that’s out of the way." He strikes Gon, once, and the last thing Killua sees is his body thumping to the ground before his brother’s hand slams into his temple and he’s lost to darkness, too.

 

* * *

 

Killua lost count of his scars when he was four years old. They weave across his skin in pink and silver tracks, taut and thick and raised and indented, twisting and wide and narrow and long. They were made in a thousand different ways and he makes a point of not trying to remember which. Except for one. It was burned between his shoulder blades when he was fifteen years old. A decade later, it is still livid against his skin. The edges are rough where his flesh wrinkled and charred in the heat and he often wakes with the memory of his own screams sitting thickly in his throat.

 

It’s not just a scar. It’s a word.

 

Because Killua was given a choice, when he woke, at home again and trapped, again. He was chained before a window and through its bars he could see Gon, who had not yet been his lover but who had been so much more than, strictly speaking, a friend could be. And he had received an ultimatum from his father. If he killed him, he could be free. He could leave the family and wander the world for as long as he liked and he need do nothing that they asked and if he wanted to he could return. But the price of his freedom was Gon’s life. Not only that, Gon’s death by his hand, and his hand alone.

 

Or, he could be theirs. He could suffer the punishment that was promised for his disobedience to be greater than any that he had faced before. He could never leave the family again except on their orders. His life would be theirs, and he would do as he was told, and he would suffer the consequences. And in return, Gon would go free. And if he ever disobeyed again, then they would find him, and they would kill him, and they would make Killua watch the body rot.

 

He could be free, but lose Gon, or trapped again and lose him anyway to the world he would no longer walk except to break it.

 

And Killua gave up. Because there was no universe or existence or reality in which he would ever willingly stop Gon from being. It ran against the very grain of his soul and if that meant another lifetime of suffering and an eternity of torment after that for the sins he never wanted to commit then so be it.

 

His father had been furious. He spat at him, at the ease with which he surrendered once more. He roared about conviction, and treachery, and spinelessness. And then Killua was taken away and his punishment was worse than any he had faced before (though not the worst before he was allowed to walk the world and murder). And when he’d been reduced once again to little more than his component parts they finished by strapping him to a cold stone bench and branding him with an iron forged specifically for the purpose.

 

And it read COWARD. And it would never fade.

 

* * *

 

 

In the mean time, Gon was taken by the family servants to a hut in which they tortured him for a month. He was told that should he be able to escape and free Killua, they could leave and never return, nor fear being taken back. And he was starving and bloody and his bones were broken and he tried with every breath in his body and he could not so much as break the chains in which he was bound, until on the last night a man named Gotoh broke them for him and physically stopped him from running to the castle. He told him where to find a master with a strange name and long silver hair, and he told him that dying would not help Killua. And so, burning with shame and grief and fury and barely able to walk let alone run, Gon fled.

 

But he had every intention of coming back.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So! Here's my take on a bit of Gon and Killua's background. It's not strictly speaking canon within the main story because Hanna and I didn't establish so much in detail and I don't want to take the wheel, but when I was first thinking about the story I personally had a very clear idea of how I imagined them to have met and known each other before and that was this, basically.
> 
> Obviously some deviations from the canon timeline, and historical probability. Killua could have been with the Iga-ryu school from a much younger age, though personally I imagine the Zoldycks sort of do their own thing in that regard. I wanted to mess around a little with how he might have been different if he hadn't run away, and if the Zoldyck's had kept him a little longer. I think, if not for Gon, he'd have been closer to the Illumi version of a Zoldyck, which breaks my heart a bit but there you go. My thinking is that the Zoldycks would equip him with skills, knowledge, tools etc - and bring him people to kill at home, but not let him wander off until they were sure their hold was absolute. Which is sort of why Silva's whole test in the first place happens here, to be sure of that, before they set him on the world.
> 
> I can also easily see Gon as Reckless Lost Urchin TM, so there you go. I hope he found Mito again at some point between now and the main story. I like to think he did. For me, this is about a decade before 'Duty' starts (for those that don't know, hi, Duty is MetaVirus and my collaboration, where Killua is hired to assassinate Kurapika and stopped by Gon. When he does, they're actually in the neighbouring historical province to that in which they meet here.)
> 
> Anyhoo, hope you enjoyed it and had tissues ready!


End file.
